Origin of the Name
by grab bag
Summary: Holes. Songfic that attempts to explain the origin of nicknames at CGL.
1. Default Chapter

_Even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away_

James stared at the letter he held in his hand. While sorting through his stack of computer printed bills and junk mail, he had come across a hand- addressed envelope. But instead of being printed with "James Vendell" or even "Jim Vendell," it said simply "Brig." This had caught his attention instantly. At first, he moved towards the trashcan, but stopped. Something about that simple word, it struck a chord. He just couldn't throw it out. James tore open the top and removed the paper inside.

_All the dreams you never thought you'd lose, tossed along the way_

"Honey, what is it? Did the acceptance letter come?"

Jim's wife Rita came in from the living room, and looked expectantly at the letter he held in his hand.

Rita frowned. "Oh, it looks like a small envelope. That's bad, isn't it?"

Jim looked up, stone-faced. "I need to go out west on Saturday."

"It's not for the college then?"

"No. But it's important. You understand, baby?" James pleaded.

"Alright. Maybe I'll be able to get in a double-shift that day."

"Yeah. I really love you, Rita. You know that don't you?"

"Yes. I love you too." Rita and James kissed. Rita was a little concerned about James' behavior, but she was pretty sure she knew what this was about, so she let it go.

That night, James opened his closet. At the back, he unearthed from the pile of fallen clothes a milk crate. He removed one of the pre- assembled "kits" he had in the box. His lifelines. It was the first one of six.

_Letters that you never meant to send Got lost and thrown away_

Saturday morning, James collected what he needed. Into his car he packed a box, a small plastic bag of dirt, and a shovel. The box contained one orange thread, one brass token, and a splinter of wood. The shovel barely fit in his trunk, because it was five feet long. James also carried a letter in his jeans pocket. He had thought to wear a suit, but decided against it.

That letter...he could almost imagine how bad it sounded. How young, immature, whiny, and focused on such ridiculous goals it must be. Was that the last voice he wanted Dusty to hear? He'd nearly tossed it out twice, and when he'd once lost it, he almost didn't look for it. But for some reason, he had to. He had to keep that letter, with the three words emblazoned on the envelope.  
James got in his car and headed west.

_And all the grown up orphans, I never knew their names_

Dusty...where had that name come from? Surely his real name would be better for the...the stone? With a sudden jolt, Jim realized he didn't remember any of their real names. He didn't even remember what they had looked like back then. When everything about those five young teenagers had faded, only the nicknames were left. James thought about this as he drove.

_They don't belong to no one, that's a shame_

Would they be the only ones there? It was very non-traditional, he knew that much. But then again, Dusty had come to camp with attachments to nobody, nothing. Nothing but his name to hide behind.

_And you could stand beside me, Maybe for a while_

Dusty loved naming things. It was practically his idea, after all. No one knew why it was so important to any of them, but it was.

_And I won't tell no one your name. I won't tell 'em your name._

Twig...Radio..Lápiz...Spook...of course Dusty. And himself, Brig.

All meaningless words, except to those who understood them.

_The scars are souvenirs you never lose, The past is never far_

James arrived to find four men standing next to their cars out in the desert. No need to go too close to the camp, didn't want to scare the newbies. Just get their job done. The other men said nothing as Jim exited his car. Not surprising. Jim could see they all still had their arm and back muscles, just as he did. When they each clapped him on the back in semi-hugs, Jim saw the hands still rough, still calloused. A rectangular box lay on the ground near the four cars. Jim couldn't tell who had brought it, nor did he really want to know.

When they did speak, it was the thin Asian man who spoke first.

"Welcome home, D-Tent," said Twig. The African-American man who was called Radio nodded.

"Welcome home," he echoed.

The Hispanic next to him then said, "So, it's been ten years, huh."

"I know, Lápiz, I can't believe it either," said Spook, still pale as ever.

Radio began to talk, as usual. "You know, I heard they found the treasure we was digging for. I always said there was more than good character in this dirt. Some kids called Yelnats and Zeroni, I tell ya', what kinda' nicknames are those? It was bad enough when A-Tent started copyin' us, but these kids today, they think just cause they bad enough to make it in Camp Greenlake, that lets 'em desecrate the traditions we started. Acronyms aren't enough to count as a name. Names, they're sacred things, man. Sacred. If Dusty were here..." Radio realized his mistake, and stopped short.

Twig broke the awkward silence.  
"Guys- we better start digging."

_Did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?_

Each man took his five-foot shovel and began to dig. Amazing how quickly they still dug, ten years later, and how easily they sliced through the dirt. It must have rained recently. As they dug their long oval shaped hole, they all heard the same voice echo in their heads-

"Your shovel is your measuring stick, five feet deep, five feet in diameter."

Only today, it was an oval- 10 feet at the longest part, 5 at the narrowest. And still 5 feet deep.

They dug in silence. There would be time for talk later.  
Right now, too many memories were coming back.

_Don't it make you sad to know that life Is more than who we are?_

The box had been lowered to the bottom of the hole. Five men stood around the rim, staring down at the plain pinewood box, with five envelopes and five small boxes on top of it.

Spook sniffled, " Guys- this is it. Dusty's gone. It...it didn't really sink in until just now."

Lápiz said in a sad tone, "Yeah. It was Dusty who even gave us our...our names. Who we are. And now he's...gone. Just like that."

Radio joined, "This kid, he started like, a tradition. A legacy." Everyone automatically looked to Twig. He was silent for a moment, and then began to speak.

"It's good he had something to call his own, though I doubt any of the kids at the camp now even know how it started. They probably all think their names are just a way to be accepted. Dusty, he needed that nickname. We all needed them. Just think- we were six nobodies. Six losers. With broken homes or broken friendships or broken lives. Dusty, I think he might've had it the worst. We came here to be punished, and we kind of, I don't know, rebelled again with these nicknames. We may have been thirsty, and tired, and hot for two years, but we were somebody. They couldn't take that feeling away, not like water. They couldn't touch it.

"And you stuck with me, too. Every time I heard a little kid on Halloween saying 'Boo!' I thought of you, Spook. My daughter takes Spanish in school, and 'lápiz' is her favorite word, but she doesn't know why. Maybe it was because of the stories I told her to put her to sleep when she was younger. Any tabloid I ever see reminds me of Radio, and when they use the word 'brigand' in an article describing a robbery, it's you I think of, Brig. And every time I think of any of you guys, I think of Dusty too. Because he gave you your names. And mine. I don't think he ever knew how important they were to us..." Twig fell silent.

_You grew up way too fast Now there's nothing to believe And reruns all become our history_

"Brig. Your turn." James moved forward, as the others had done, and looked down at his letter. On the front of the envelope, it was written "Dusty" and on the back, though he couldn't read it from here, it said simply, "From, Brig." The inside, he could barely remember, told of how they'd made their pacts. They had saved items, souvenirs if you will. Write letters. They would remember long after the others had gone. It was a solemn, purely symbolic idea, but it had seemed right then, and none would break a pact with their best friends.

"I think, " Brig began, "that at some points, I was ready to give up. But hearing you guys, and Dusty, joking and laughing, that helped. Hollering these unusual names across the tent or that barren wasteland, it was an honor. It gave me a sense of...well, togetherness. You know, family. Because that's what we are- a family. An absolutely bizarre one, of course," he added, with only a faint touch of humor, "but family nonetheless. It was something special we had, we were the only ones with these names. Of course A-tent had to copy us, but we were the ones who really knew how much it meant to be christened by the original. By the one and only Dusty."

Brig understood now. The names were enough for them to band together in rebellion to the "names society will recognize them by." They were important. They were accepted by each other. They were friends. They mattered.

So that's why the letter had moved him so much.

They now could completely understand why they had cared so much. Why all of them had meant to throw out those letters, but couldn't. This wasn't the funeral of a nameless ancient relative. This was the funeral of a brother. Worse, it was the death of a legend. The death of the member of the first D-tent that had started the infamous tradition of nicknames that had bonded groups of boys for ten years. Names that would stick with you. Names they would all remember for the rest of their lives.  
James and the others could only stare.

Stare, and cry at the loss of a friend. Of family.

_A tired song keeps playing on a tired radio, And I won't tell no one your name_

Spook addressed Radio- "You got the stone?"

"Yea." Radio moved to the back of his truck, and pulled out a gravestone no bigger than a brick.

Lápiz asked, "What's it say?"

"Dusty," Radio answered solemnly.

Spook eyed it. "Is it enough? Should we...you know...add his real name?"

"No," Brig answered quickly. "I think he would've liked to be-" he choked briefly, "-remembered as Dusty. He will always be Dusty. It's just...him."

Twig nodded, and Spook placed the stone at the head of the freshly covered patch of earth.

Finally, they all took out their bag of the reddish soil and each dumped the small quantity into his hand. Almost immediately, a light breeze picked up.

"To Dusty," Brig said. "To Dusty," they all echoed.

They all threw their dirt into the air, where it separated into a light dust and all mixed together. Some of it settled on the grave, some blew into their hair and clothes, and some blew away across the dried up lakebed. But wherever it went, it all went together.

"Rest in peace, Dusty."

_And I won't tell 'em your name_

**Thirty years later**

_ I__ think about you all the time, But I don't need the same_

James Vendell, the last surviving member of D-tent, lay in his bed. He was finishing his last Will and Testament, leaving most of his property and all of his love to his wife and children. Laying it on his nightstand, he picked up a manila envelope and read the top paper inside.

"To Whom it May Concern,"  
Enclosed you shall find instructions for the location, manner, and contents of my funeral. I request these be fulfilled exactly as written for personal reasons.  
-James M. Vendell

There wasn't a day that had gone by since Dusty's funeral that Brig hadn't thought about them. They had managed to see each other more after that day. But they had buried more.

_If it's lonely where you are, Come back down_

It was down to one.

Soon, a final headstone would join these other five, lying side by side in the hard-baked earth, not far from where they'd spent the worst years of their lives, and the best years of their friendships. They'd all be together soon enough. Dusty, Lápiz, Spook, Radio, Twig.

And Brigand.

_I won't tell 'em your name_


	2. Veteran's Day A Little Something Extra

Dusty,

Hey, man. It's hard to imagine that you'll never get to read this. Figure's you'd be the one coming up with an idea like this. I just don't get you literary intellectual types. Yeah, I guess it's symbolic and all, but I don't really understand.

I hope we can keep in contact, even after we're released from this hellhole. You and the guys are the best things that happened to me. Before I swiped those roller skates, I was just a stubborn, angry asshole. Now that I'll be getting out of here in a few months, at least now I've got friends. I know it's not really right for a guy to say this, but you really are like a brother to me. All of them are my friends, but man, Dusty; you ARE the brother I never had.

What we've all gone through together was the scariest time of my life. We've shared the pain. We all suffered, and we were there for each other, you most of all. I hope someday I can repay the favor, and be there for you. For all of them.

Thank God no one's going to read this.

You told us all to write down our goals. You always told me I was a great talker. The others said I was a great arguer.

This sounds so corny even thinking it.

Fine. What the hell. Here goes.

I'm gonna go back to school. I'll finish it. I'll apply to law school. I'll make it. I'm gonna be a lawyer with my own firm and handle all my own cases and affairs until the day I die. I'm gonna marry a great, wonderful woman. I'm gonna have kids and teach them right. I will make something of myself. I will BE somebody. Someone worthwhile.

There. Happy? Now I have to live up to it. Ha.

Yeah. Well, Mom's coming and I doubt that pacts and letters are exactly good for "building character." They sure as hell aren't going to help find whatever Radio says we're looking for. Buried treasure, my ass.

See you on the other side.

-Brigand

July 8, 1989

Remember, Dusty, I'm there for you. Always.

Brothers Never Die.


End file.
